’Well, Sir, in goes Mr. Beauclerc, staggering—­his room was the Flower de luce—­and down he throws himself, clothes an’ all, on his bed; and then my lord turned on Mr. Edwards, I’m sure that was his name, and persuades him to play at piquet; and to it they went.

’As I was coming in with more wine, I meets Mr. Archer coming out, “Give them their wine,” says he, in a whisper, “and follow me.”  An’ so I did.  “You know something of Glascock, and have a fast hold of him,” says he, “and tell him quietly to bring up Mr. Beauclerc’s boots, and come back along with him; and bring me a small glass of rum.”  And back he goes into the room where the two were stuck in their cards, and talking and thinking of nothing else.’

CHAPTER LXXI.

IN WHICH MR. IRONS’S NARRATIVE REACHES MERTON MOOR.

’Well, I did as he bid me, and set the glass of rum before him, and in place of drinking it, he follows me out.  “I told you,” says he, “I’d find a way, and I’m going to give you fifty guineas apiece.  Stand you at the stair-head,” says he to Glascock, “and listen; and if you hear anyone coming, step into Mr. Beauclerc’s room with his boots, do you see, for I’m going to rob him.”  I thought I’d a fainted, and Glascock, that was a tougher lad than me, was staggered; but Mr. Archer had a way of taking you by surprise, and getting you into a business before you knew where you were going.  “I see, Sir,” says Glascock.  “And come you in, and I’ll do it,” says Mr. Archer, and in we went, and Mr. Beauclerc was fast asleep.

‘I don’t like talking about it,’ said Irons, suddenly and savagely, and he got up and walked, with a sort of a shrug of the shoulders, to and fro half-a-dozen times, like a man who has a chill, and tries to make his blood circulate.

Mervyn commanded himself, for he knew the man would return to his tale, and probably all the sooner for being left to work off his transient horror how he might.

’Well, he did rob him, and I often thought how cunningly, for he took no more than about half his gold, well knowing, I’m now sure, neither he nor my lord, your father, kept any count; and there was a bundle of notes in his pocket-book, which Mr. Archer was thinning swiftly, when all of a sudden, like a ghost rising, up sits Mr. Beauclerc, an unlucky rising it was for him, and taking him by the collar—­he was a powerful strong man—­“You’ve robbed me, Archer,” says he.  I was behind Mr. Archer, and I could not see what happened, but Mr. Beauclerc made a sort of a start and a kick out with his foot, and seemed taken with a tremble all over, for while you count three, and he fell back in the bed with his eyes open, and Mr. Archer drew a thin long dagger out of the dead man’s breast, for dead he was.